


Steady

by wreckofherheart



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘I think we would have been good friends when we were kids.’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Rosa scowls. ‘Don’t make me regret inviting you out.’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Who else would you ask to join you?’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Amazed, Amy realises she’s actually won this minor debate. Rosa lets out a long exhale, perhaps in defeat, perhaps in sheer irritation, and downs over half of her pint. Amy blinks, and looks away. A little scared, a little worried.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Don’t you think that, though?’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Yeah, right.’ Rosa scoffs, but Amy notices the edge of her lips rising into a small smile. ‘I’d have smashed you into the wall –– bet you would have been a pain in my ass as you are now.’</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady

There’s not much talking.

At first, she decides it’s probably best that way. While she’s not exactly the most social creature alive, Rosa’s communication skills are apparently non-existent. So, wisely, Amy doesn’t ask, or talk, or even try. It’s simpler, cleaner. 

And bloody difficult. 

No one picks up on it, surprisingly. A fairly expressive woman, Amy is pleased with her stoic abilities, but perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised Rosa doesn’t give anything away. Sometimes, it’s almost as if she doesn’t genuinely _care_. 

The routine seems to become the norm: a spontaneous call at God knows what hour from Rosa herself, asking –– or, _demanding_ is probably the word –– Amy join her for a drink. A rare laugh in-between drunken conversations on material Amy can barely remember the following morning, before somehow collapsing onto Rosa’s bed, kissing and throwing each other’s clothes aside.

Then the fucking.

When it happened the first time, Amy expected to adopt the more submissive role. Quite frankly, she wanted to. It was hot, and it was messy, and it made absolutely no sense, but it felt amazing. So good to the point she was screaming and aching for more.

Of course, at the office, such occasions are never spoken about.

Maybe even on a good day, Rosa might acknowledge her presence with some degree of respect.

But “good days” don’t come often enough.

Yet after the first time, the second, and then the third, and the fourth time and then the time after that, the fucking wasn’t simply _fucking_. Because sometimes the fucking is gentle. Gentle and affectionate, and too many kisses, and too many touches; too many gentle caresses shared between them. Because sometimes the fucking is a lot like how lovers fuck, how lovers love. 

The fucking becomes too familiar. Too normal. Too common between them. They know where to touch each other, where to pull, where to kiss, where to bite and suck, and neither are left unsatisfied. It’s heaven, and it’s torture. 

When there is talking, it’s in whispers, and a language Amy doesn’t know well. Rosa’s hushed Spanish sends a wave of arousal through her every time, and Amy simply can’t get enough.

Even when she’s forced to leave before dawn.

Alcohol. Rosa’s alleged best friend when night falls. Because after so many times, after so many evenings together, mornings of being kicked out of apartment, or quietly leaving the bed, Amy starts to know her.

Which is scary. The very idea of _knowing_ Rosa is a bizarre concept, and one Amy never thought she would be able to divulge in.

But Rosa drinks, and Amy drinks beside her, and they _talk_. They talk before they start kissing and get too heated and wrapped up in each other; that the talking _has_ to come to an abrupt halt. They talk about many things, too many things, the kind of things which eventually reduce Amy to tears, and the kind of things which make Rosa _soften_. 

About abusive fathers. About hiding in the cupboard when father returns, terrified that he will lose interest in her mother, and focus on her instead. About watching the half empty bottle of alcohol balance loosely in his hand, and wondering if this is his first or fiftieth of the day. About wondering whether he will actually kill her mother in the end, or she will somehow get herself and her mother alive before anymore damage is caused.

About visiting an abusive father’s corpse, and spitting on his grave.

And then the deranged mother. So _fucked_ _up_ from his fists, all she can do now is sit in a room and wait to die. Lost in some dreamless state.

About the bullies. The racists. The dropping out of education. The whole _shit_ of her life.

Then the lies. The fantasy she delivers to anybody she cares to mention her family to. About a father who’s a teacher, and how everything is perfectly fucking _fine_.

But she’s here anyway. Working. And drinking with a woman who she actually envies. Because it must be nice: to be loved like Amy must be. To know a mother and father are proud, somewhere, wherever. That must be nice. 

‘’S why it’s so hard to like you.’

Amy flinches at that. ‘Oh.’

Rosa taps her empty glass onto the bar. ‘One more –– and another for my friend here.’ The barman nods, and immediately prepares her order.

Amy catches herself smiling. ‘I’m your friend finally?’ Because she shouldn’t smile. She shouldn’t smile at Rosa’s compliments, implied or not, drunk or not. She shouldn’t smile at the idea that she might be Rosa’s friend. 

‘Shut up.’ Rosa sniffs, and passes over Amy’s beverage. ‘Drink.’

‘I think we would have been good friends when we were kids.’

Rosa scowls. ‘Don’t make me regret inviting you out.’

‘Who else would you ask to join you?’

Amazed, Amy realises she’s actually won this minor debate. Rosa lets out a long exhale, perhaps in defeat, perhaps in sheer irritation, and downs over half of her pint. Amy blinks, and looks away. A little scared, a little worried. 

‘Don’t you think that, though?’

‘Yeah, right.’ Rosa scoffs, but Amy notices the edge of her lips rising into a small smile. ‘I’d have smashed you into the wall –– bet you would have been a pain in my ass as you are now.’

‘Nice,’ Amy smirks sarcastically. ‘If I’m such a pain, then why do you keep bringing me back to your place? Clearly you don’t think I’m too bad.’

‘Nah, you’re all right.’ 

Amy catches the implied insult, and glares. Rosa grins. 

‘You’re free to leave, y’know? I’m not forcing you to stay.’

True. Amy can leave. She could have left the first time Rosa asked her to the bar. But she didn’t. She remained by her side, and even when things didn’t go as expected, Amy was still there. Still here now. And even if Rosa is too damn proud to admit it, Amy knows she enjoys her presence. 

She enjoys it too much.

Amy rolls her eyes. ‘Hating you would be so much easier.’ 

She abandons her drink, grabs Rosa’s face between her hands, and kisses her. Hard. She kisses her hard, and deep and wonderfully. Rosa can reveal her disturbing history, can drink pint after pint, and then throw Amy her dead-eyed look every morning, but, as silly as it sounds, Amy can’t be deterred.

Not when the kissing is this good. Not when they have to flee the bar, hail a taxi, and hurry to bed together. But as Amy kisses her neck, bites Rosa’s lower lip, touches her breast, pins her body between her thighs, she’s certain of one thing.

For all of this, for all of Rosa, for all of her _fucked_ up brilliance, she would much rather stay.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind I've slipped in a few headcanons regarding Rosa. I'm actually not even past season one, but the idea of these two having a relationship gives me the giggles. What can I say? They kinda work.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
